Serpent's Gate

by Jade Astor

  “Good thinking,” Uncle Vernon acknowledged. “Hop out and take care of that, would you, Stephen? You can figure out modern technology much faster than I can.”

  “Okay.” Eager to get out of the car after more than two hours, Stephen pushed open the door and approached the gate, giving a wide berth to the massive and thankfully motionless creature staring down at him. Stephen had never felt especially afraid of snakes—one of his college boyfriends had even kept one in a specially heated tank in his dorm room—but the coarse ugliness of this inanimate one revolted him at a primal level. With a shiver he recalled Geoffrey’s farfetched tales. He and Uncle Vernon hadn’t spoken of that ugly scene since it had happened. Now, not for the first time, Stephen wondered if they might have been too quick to discount his warning.

  His hesitation attracted Uncle Vernon’s attention.

  “What’s the matter?” he called, leaning out of the driver’s side window.

  “Nothing. I was just looking at the snake on the gate. It’s…unusual, don’t you think?”

  Uncle Vernon studied it for a moment and then laughed. “That is I would call an architecturally based security system, nineteenth-century style, designed to scare away curious onlookers and superstitious panhandlers alike. I daresay it was quite successful in its day.”

  “Not only back then.” Stephen bit his lip, averting his eyes from the beast as he pushed the call button.

  A rough male voice crackled over the intercom. “Keep your hair on. I already saw your car. Be right over.”

  “I hope that wasn’t one of their servants,” Uncle Vernon said, scandalized. “Surely one might expect a bit more formality at a residence like this.”

  “Uncle Vernon, we’re not in an episode of Uptown Abbey. People don’t have servants in the modern world. Employees, maybe.”

  “Even so, a touch of common courtesy would hardly be remiss.”

  Stephen shrugged as a young man in dark jeans, boots, and a slightly grimy maroon t-shirt emerged from the gatehouse. A huge medieval-style key dangled from a ring around his wrist. A boorish smirk twisted his lips.

  “What do you want? We don’t allow salespeople up here, and it ain’t my job to give directions.”

  “We don’t want directions, and we’re not salespeople. My uncle and I have an appointment at the house. We’re supposed to examine some old—er, antiquarian books for Roark Fairbourne.”

  “Books, huh? Well, no one told me anything about it.”

  “Perhaps no one thought the particulars were any of your concern,” Uncle Vernon called from the car.

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” A sneer revealed a mouth of crowded teeth. From this angle, the light slanting through the bars made them look slightly undersized and pointed. “I’m the gatekeeper here. Who comes and goes is always my concern. My job, in fact. Along with other things.”

  Uncle Vernon’s baby-plump cheeks turned pink—a bad sign , Stephen knew. “Young man, you are overstepping your authority! Your employer, Roark Fairbourne, is expecting us. Now open this gate at once and let us in!”

  “All you have to do is call the house and verify our invitation,” Stephen pointed out. “I’m sure someone there can confirm everything we’ve told you.”

  A meaty fist curled around the key as those boulder-like shoulders tensed, making Stephen wonder if he should run for his life. Then the gatekeeper shrugged and started to giggle in an unnervingly high-pitched voice.

  “All right, all right. I know who you are. Just having a little fun. It gets boring out here, watching the gate all the time with no one coming to visit.” His smirk relaxed into a grin that wasn’t, at least in Stephen’s opinion, any more reassuring. “I’m Leo. I take care of the grounds here. You know, cut the grass and trim the shrubs, stuff like that.”

  “Not by yourself, surely,” Uncle Vernon muttered, but thankfully Leo didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he waved one huge hand at Stephen.

  “Step back and I’ll open up for you.”

  “Thanks,” Stephen said, gratefully retreating to the car.

  Before he fitted the key into the old-fashioned lock, Leo spread his fingers over the shovel-shaped head of the carved snake. “Do you like him? His name is Istharios, and he guards the Fairbourne family. Since before they built the house.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Uncle Vernon argued through the open window. “Surely the gate doesn’t predate the other structures on the grounds.”

  “He did,” Leo insisted. “This isn’t the real Istharios. It’s just a symbol someone made and hung up for people to see. The real Istharios lives in a place we can’t see, ready to come if we need him. He’s been here forever…and he’ll be here after we’re all gone, too. As long as there are Fairbournes around. Or maybe longer.”

  “Well, this is all very interesting, Leo, but perhaps we ought to speak of it another time. Mr. Fairbourne is expecting us up at the house. In other words, please stand aside so we can proceed.”

  “Okay. But just remember one thing.” Leo’s pointy-toothed grin returned. “I’m the only one who can let you out. Me and Istharios, that is.”

  He got back to work with the key. Soon the twin gates swung open with a squeal and a clanking sound.

  Uncle Vernon pressed the gas pedal. “A quaint legend, though an unusual choice of mascot. One might reasonably have expected a nobler creature—say, a lion or even a griffin. But no doubt the serpent conveyed a certain mystique the Fairbourne family enjoyed, especially among the peasantry.”

  “Whatever works, I guess.” Stephen refrained from reminding him that they hadn’t suddenly crossed a barrier into medieval Europe. He tried to picture that long, powerful sleeve of scale and muscle slithering down off the gate and launching itself at an intruder. Death would come quickly, though perhaps not quickly enough, inside those muscular coils.

  “Here we are at last.” Uncle Vernon turned into a circular driveway. Fine, sand-colored gravel crunched under their tires, and Stephen realized that, however striking the grounds were, they were nothing compared to Fairbourne House itself. Up close, the veil of mist parted and the dingy blur of stone became a mosaic of white, grey, and silver blocks, with twisted strands of dark green ivy clutching at each rock’s jagged edges. Gleaming windows, their tall panes polished to perfection, kept watch like wide-open eyes over the broad stone terrace. One entire side of the terrace had been fashioned into a grand set of steps better suited to a cathedral or palace. Except for the luxury sedan and two sports cars in the driveway, and the electric safety lights affixed to either side of the front door, the house probably hadn’t changed much since its construction hundreds of years before. It stood as a relic joining a hazy, vaguely depressing past to a faster-paced but perhaps even more cynical present.

  “We can only hope the library is as well preserved as the façade,” Uncle Vernon said, seeming to read his thoughts, as they mounted the steps. Before they had a chance to ring the bell, a diminutive woman with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a long-sleeved blue dress appeared to show them inside. Stephen wondered if she might be Roark Fairbourne’s mother or grandmother. He wasn’t sure how old Roark was, after all.

  “Please come in. Leo called ahead to say you were on the way.” She motioned them into a foyer lined with antique furniture and still-life paintings. One of them depicted the obligatory bowl of fruit with a pair of gardening shears beside it. Just behind the bowl, almost hidden from view, lay a coiled brown snake in profile. At least this one was nowhere near as big as Istharios. Its beady dark-gold eyes peered out from the shadow cast by the bowl.

  “Did he?” Uncle Vernon raised a brow. “I’m relieved to hear that. Leo didn’t seem especially eager to let us through the front gate.”

  “That’s just his way. He doesn’t mean anything by it. If you’ll follow me to the lounge, I’ll tell Mr. Fairbourne you’re here.”

  “Another serv—ah, employee whose manners leave much to be desired,” Uncle Vernon w
hispered as they followed her through a side door. Her crisp footsteps clicked on the polished wood floor as she hurried ahead of them. “I can’t imagine why Roark Fairbourne keeps such people around him.”

  “Maybe he has trouble hiring people to work here,” Stephen suggested. “Especially with that snake on the front gate. Like you said, it’s meant to scare away outsiders and intimidate the staff. Maybe it works too well.”

  “Nonsense. There are always competent workers around if one makes an effort to look for them.”

  They moved down a short hallway lined with other closed doors, one of which she opened. The three of them stepped into a large room featuring a spotless cream-colored carpet. An antique desk sat beside an unused fireplace at one end, while a leather sofa and two matching loveseats dominated the center.

  “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Iced tea? Sherry?”

  “Nothing just now, thank you,” Uncle Vernon answered for both of them.

  “I wouldn’t have minded some iced tea,” Stephen said after she’d withdrawn again.

  “We mustn’t impose ourselves. There will be a time and a place for refreshment—after we have seen the books.”

  While Uncle Vernon settled himself on the sofa, Stephen attempted to distract himself by looking around at the various paintings and framed photographs that lined the walls. Most were of Fairbourne ancestors from various points in history, but one photograph stood out as clearly modern. In it, two small boys, one blond and one dark-haired, wore matching white suits and little blue ties. They beamed while a woman’s hands rested on their shoulders as they leaned against her velvety crimson skirt. The top of the photograph, which would have shown her face, had been cut away. The frame was of an unusual size, leading Stephen to suspect it had been customized after the photo was cropped.

  Next to that hung a painting of a stodgy older man in clothes similar to those Maynard Carlyle might have worn to his Dickens reading. Instead of Maynard’s full white beard, this one sprouted a narrow, pointed goatee that didn’t flatter his thin, downturned mouth. Stephen thought he looked sort of mean.

  Footsteps thudded up the hall, prompting Uncle Vernon to jump up from his seat. The door opened a moment later and a young man entered. He had dressed casually for their visit in a salmon polo shirt, sail-colored khakis, and buttery tan loafers that, Stephen suspected, had probably cost more than all the shoes in his closet put together.

  He smiled easily as he extended his right hand. “Mr. Carlyle! Thank you for coming. And thank you for bringing Stephen along. I would never have forgiven you if he hadn’t turned up.”

  “Very pleased to meet you indeed.” Uncle Vernon stepped forward to offer an enthusiastic shake, but Stephen didn’t follow suit. Instead, he stood immobile with shock.

  He recognized their host right away. Roark was the strange young man who had recited Coleridge to him in his uncle’s shop.

  “I hope we’re not late,” Uncle Vernon apologized, paying no mind to Stephen’s look of astonishment. “We had some trouble with your groundsman. It took a full ten minutes to convince him to open the gate and let us pass through.”

  “Oh, Leo. I guess I should apologize on his behalf. Sadly, he’s sort of a troubled soul. I admit I keep him here out of a sense of obligation more than confidence in his abilities. His father was my father’s employee for many years, and his mother is still my housekeeper. Mrs. Mulgrave let you in just now.”

  “Ah. I see.” Uncle Vernon nodded, placated for the time being. Stephen hoped he hadn’t insulted the poor woman with his earlier remarks about her son. She probably had enough trouble with him as it was.

  Roark turned to Stephen. “I saw you looking at the painting,” he said, misinterpreting his impatience for interest. “That is my great grandfather, Silas Fairbourne. Do you have a passion for art, Stephen? Because we have a fair amount of it strewn about the place. Not just portraits and landscapes, which is what you tend to find in houses like this. Some of the subjects are quite interesting—perhaps even startling.”

  “Great,” Stephen muttered without the slightest enthusiasm, though secretly he wondered what kind of old-fashioned paintings could ever be considered startling. Not that he would give Roark Fairbourne the satisfaction of asking.

  “Still, we have plenty of time for that. All weekend, in fact. I hope your uncle will allow you some time away from cataloging my books so we can talk a little. It’ll be nice to have someone my own age around the place.”

  “Of course. I’m sure he’d be delighted.” Clearly enthusiastic to forge a deeper connection with the Fairbournes, Uncle Vernon raised his brows at Stephen, who didn’t react. “He may be only twenty-two, but he already knows more about antiquarian books than most people twice his age. His parents and I expect great things of him.”

  Instead of feeling flattered, Stephen wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. He hated when the adults in his family discussed him as though he wasn’t present. That Uncle Vernon would do so in front of Roark Fairbourne, who was only a few years older than Stephen, was even worse.

  Luckily, Roark seemed to take Uncle Vernon’s comment in stride. “I’m sure your expectations are entirely justified. And speaking of those musty old books, I want to apologize in advice for the state you’ll find them in. No one except my father has looked through them in years. I’m afraid they’re in a thoroughly disorganized state.”

  Stephen could almost hear Uncle Vernon’s pulse quicken in horror. “Have they been damaged? Because Stephen and I offer restoration services as well. In fact—”

  “No, no, nothing like that, thankfully. Their bindings, and hopefully their value, should remain intact. Who knows? You might even discover some valuable first editions jammed between the clutter.”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Uncle Vernon agreed. “I understand your library is well over a century old. There are bound to be surprises, though I can’t say for sure until I’ve thoroughly examined everything.”

  “If there are surprises, I hope they’re pleasant ones.” Roark glanced up at the painting of Silas. “As you know, I’m interested in selling off the entire lot despite my cousin Malcolm’s objections. I feel it’s time for the Fairbourne estate to move forward into the future. We can’t do that with all these remnants of the past clinging to us like vines.”

  “And does your brother agree?” Uncle Vernon asked. “Mr. Argyle mentioned him in passing. He’s been away, I understand.”

  “My brother?” Roark looked faintly shocked, or maybe just offended. “’Away’ is an understatement. He left three years ago and hasn’t been back since. I think it’s safe to say he has no interest in either the library or the family.”

  “I’m sorry to bring him up, then, but I feel I must be frank with you, Mr. Fairbourne. I have been in similar situations before when it comes to valuing estates, and it is usually better if all family members concerned are in agreement as to the disposition of the assets. I would regret being in a position of—”

  “My brother Justin isn’t a consideration in this matter,” Roark snapped, his dark eyes widening with anger. Quickly he recovered himself. “That is, I think it’s safe to say that Justin has started a new life elsewhere, and his interests have moved in other directions. So we should feel free to come to an agreement without his input.”

  Uncle Vernon’s jaw squirmed as if he longed to ask more, but to Stephen’s relief, Roark put an end to his inquiries by gesturing toward the hall.

  “Now that we’ve all gotten to know each other a little, why don’t I take you and Stephen to the library? I’m sure you’re eager to see the books, and this way you’ll have some time to poke around while Leo takes your things to the cottage.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Uncle Vernon said, immediately losing all interest in the whereabouts of Justin Fairbourne.

  “I suspected you would think so.” Roark held out his hand. “If you’ll be so kind as to loan me your keys, Mr. Carlyle, I’ll have your luggag
e transferred directly to your rooms. I thought you’d like some time to settle in, so I’ve stocked the kitchen there with lunch fixings. Please help yourselves, rest a bit, and return to the library as soon as you’re ready. I’ve planned a more formal dinner for this evening. My cousin Malcolm, whom you already know, will be joining us. We both look forward to learning much more about antiquarian bookselling. How does that sound?”

  Stephen didn’t answer, already eager for the weekend to be over so he could get away from Roark and his stash of cruddy old books, but Uncle Vernon glowed with excitement.

  “Most agreeable. We thank you again for your generosity and your kindness toward us, Mr. Fairbourne.”

  “Roark, please. And not at all. You’re doing me a great favor and giving up your weekend besides. The least I can do is entertain you in style.” Roark reached for the half-open door to the study just as Mrs. Mulgrave appeared on the other side.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fairbourne.” She looked nervous and tried to speak quietly, though Stephen could hear every word. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but we’ve had another arrival.”

  “Arrival?” Roark repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we have another guest. An unexpected one.”

  “Oh?” Roark blinked at her. “Is it Malcolm?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who, then?”

  Mrs. Mulgrave started to answer, but settled for shaking her head in frustration and moving aside. Someone else loomed up behind her, and then a second young man strolled into the room. In contrast to Roark’s relaxed style of dressing, the newcomer looked as though he had just come from one of the overpriced spas they had passed on the way. His short blond hair stood up in fashionable spikes, and a blue silk shirt brought out cornflower highlights in his silvery eyes. Tight black pants outlined a slim but muscular torso and legs. With one glance Stephen was smitten.